


Echoes

by Neelh



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Attempted Murder-Suicide, Gen, I'm Not Kidding On The Angst, Many Angsts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 18:55:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8634139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neelh/pseuds/Neelh
Summary: The waves lap against the Stan O’ War II, that small boat anchored down in the middle of the ocean, and the motion generated by that gentle force feels like a mother rocking her children to sleep in an old, old cradle. Somewhere in the deep, fish swim in schools both large and small, their little fins flickering as they darted in different directions. Somewhere else, a mother seal hunts for her hauled-out children that wait for a week for more food. And somewhere else, everywhere and nowhere like Schrodinger’s Giant Squid with a box consisting of the opaque ocean, sea monsters and anomalies lurk and play and swim and live.They are harmless, with only the faint echoes of anxiety that constantly thuds in your chest like a leaden heartbeat.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fex_libris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fex_libris/gifts).



> this was a commission for fex. everything you see henceforth is her fault, except for the wordcount, which is about a thousand words longer than it should have been. i'll get onto everyone else's commissions soon, but this was the quickest to manage!
> 
> (the request was for an expansion on a moment mentioned in my fic 'in hindsight', in which ford makes stanley cry after a nightmare)
> 
> commissions are no longer open, as they were for the fluffstravaganza event and nothing else

The ocean lulls you into a false sense of security as Stanley sleeps.

You had been sailing for a week, now, and everything was great! Since Stanley and you had talked through your issues regarding your shared past, life had become almost serene. It was kind of like a dance. He would tell you to avoid _this_ subject, and you would avoid that subject and ask him to do _this_ when you freeze and panic, because fight-or-flight instinct will get you nowhere on a boat with your brother, and together you work as two parts of a unit.

Of course, it’s not long until the echoes of your past stir up in your mind once again.

The waves lap against the Stan O’ War II, that small boat anchored down in the middle of the ocean, and the motion generated by that gentle force feels like a mother rocking her children to sleep in an old, old cradle. Somewhere in the deep, fish swim in schools both large and small, their little fins flickering as they darted in different directions. Somewhere else, a mother seal hunts for her hauled-out children that wait for a week for more food. And somewhere else, everywhere and nowhere like Schrodinger’s Giant Squid with a box consisting of the opaque ocean, sea monsters and anomalies lurk and play and swim and live.

You let yourself sleep once more, with vivid, nonsensical dreams that feel almost visceral; dreams that fade when your eyelids flickered open. They are harmless, with only the faint echoes of anxiety that constantly thuds in your chest like a leaden heartbeat. You see mermaids with the faces of your family, wearing sweaters knitted out of kelp. They wave and splash, and you are not alone.

When you wake up from those dreams, you feel loved. Those dreams are full of affection and adoration of every tiny flaw in your family, and every great trait that shouted from the rooftops; _we are good, we are right, we are loved_.

Those mornings, you climb down from the top bunk while kicking Stanley gently in the nose accidentally-on-purpose. He groans and you laugh, and he joins in too, because if it ever upsets him, he would tell you, so you would never do that again.

Also, he threw the alarm clock into the ocean on your first day out at sea, so if you neglected to wake him up by minor nasal irritation, he would probably sleep for most of the day instead of fishing, or eating, or laughing as you logged the anomaly of the single cod that he caught after an entire day’s fishing.

You don’t write in journals anymore. Fiddleford gave you a very nice tablet computer which is more than adequate enough for your needs. Also, it has a built-in camera, so you can film blackmail material for Stanley.

The problem is that you grow used to this easy camaraderie; this calm joy taken from simply existing close to one another once more.

It was easy to fall into, and you can forgive yourself for that. After so many years alone and friendless, it would have only been natural for you – once all of your walls were demolished and flaws were bared – to attach yourself to your family like a limpet to a rock. Once you felt that your trauma was dealt with, or at least neatly packed away into a little bottle of metaphors and anxiety, you ran forwards to be with your family and laugh in the sea breeze once again. You look out at the ocean and laugh, and eat, and sleep once more. You allow yourself these simple pleasures. You have lived in fear for so long, and now you’re finally free.

 

-

 

It’s about a month until the nightmares start again.

At first, your dreams don’t seem to be markedly unusual. You might find a yellow pebble on the dirty sand as the sun sets, then ignore it so that you can watch the children play. It is far more interesting and productive to watch Mabel defeat a seaweed-covered Dipper in unarmed combat than it is to muse over a simple rock.

Sometimes, the pebble has eroded into a particular, vaguely triangular shape; one with a smooth, natural hole clean through the middle. A hag stone. It is said to have many purposes in the folklore of many places. For example, one could hang one in the house to protect the inhabitants from intruders, or the stones could be rubbed over a wound and cure illness and disease.

You look away. It is far more important to watch Soos laughing like a child with Stanley, who pretends to complain but glows with affection and love.

Occasionally, the setting sun will catch on the lenses of Stanley’s glasses, reflecting a blinding yellow that nobody else seems to notice. The glow will disappear as soon as Stanley moves, but for a few moments after that, your mind churns with half-developed thoughts that never fully assemble in your unfocused mind, like shattered shells on the sand being shifted by the sea.

But mostly, the dreams feel no different than usual. You wake afterwards with the same sense of serenity that comes from being rocked and lulled by the ocean as you did before hints of yellow seeped into your dream like distant drizzling rain.

And the days pass like every day does now. You or Stanley makes breakfast, you eat together, and sometimes you call your family. The rest of your days are spent sailing through the ocean, fishing and singing songs that you remember from the past, filling the blanks of forgotten words with crude improvisations and tuneless vocalisations. And you laugh about it; deep belly laughs that make you feel warm all around your body, like being wrapped in a blanket and drinking the best hot chocolate ever made.

It’s only at night when your mind tells you that the anxiety that has always been with you – thudding in your chest like a leaden heart; echoing through your mind in an uncertain loop played on top of itself again and again and again – that the anxiety is finally relevant again.

It’s when Stanley, chest-deep in the ocean and with opaquely yellow glasses, says, “C’mon, Sixer!” and “C’mon, IQ, we haven’t got all day!”

In that moment, you feel your chest clench in panic, and you stagger backwards and the world around you feels as if it’s swaying and you realise that you should never have let your guard down.

Because it’s Bill; it’s always Bill, and you can never forget him, even when you’re supposed to finally be getting a happy ending, after the tragedy of your hubris, with wax wings that let you fly too close to the golden sun. You were supposed to repent, and learn from your mistakes, and tie up the loose ends and minor characters into one finished story.

But you’re not. You’re still falling, fragile feathers melting away, and you’re plummeting towards the ocean, staring at the setting sun and the rising moon, half-formed and faint in the golden-red sky.

You plummet, and you wake up.

Your back is against the mattress, and you realise in a moment that it was just a nightmare. No wax has dried on your neck, though that damned tattoo is still there, and when you look down to the lower bunk, Stanley is waking up, blinking bleary brown eyes and squinting a little.

“Sixer?” he asks, and you involuntarily flinch a little. Thankfully, he doesn’t see that, instead continuing with, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you say, as the nightmare goes crawling to the bottle with the metaphors and fears; a simple echo of an echo of a long-gone trauma. “I’m absolutely fine. And you?”

Stanley pats the table next to his bunk and, upon finding his glasses, puts them on his face. His eyes, now that squinting was unnecessary, were more clearly visible. You stare at the white sclera of Stan’s left eye as he says, “You were groaning in your sleep. Wait, were you having one of _those_ dreams? Because I don’t want to know if you did.”

It takes you far longer than a moment to realise what _those dreams_ would be, other than surreal visions or vivid flashbacks to times that you would rather forget. When you do finally figure it out, you splutter. “Stanley, _no_! That’s gross and weird and I’d rather not think about it, thanks.”

“I’d rather not think about you doing that, either,” grunts Stanley.

“Anyway, it was just a nightmare,” you say, climbing down the ladder from your bunk and habitually sticking your foot on Stan’s face.

“Eugh!” He swats your toes away before getting up himself. “Wanna, uh, talk about it?”

You shake your head. “No. I can barely remember what it was about.”

Stanley laughs awkwardly before he opens the curtains to the cabin window, and for a moment, you swear that you could see a glint of yellow.

 

-

 

Dipper and Mabel call a lot using the two-way mirrors that you had hanging around. Sometimes Mabel sticks her head through to give you both kisses and hugs and hot chocolate in mugs, and you’re amazed at how she fits through the mirror so easily, still full of boundless energy like an overenthusiastic rabbit being pulled out of a hat.

Mabel’s hugs are usually comforting, with her strong arms wrapped around your shoulders and her chest squished against yours, but more recently you’ve become aware of how close her arms are to your neck, and how she could easily throttle you, and how neither you nor Stanley would fight back due to the fear of hurting her. Logically, you know that it would never happen, but you tend to associate the colours of yellow and black with Bill instead of bumblebees, even with the little blue wings on the back.

What’s worse is that you are never entirely with the conversation. Physically, you are, of course, but your mind is exhausted and drifting away constantly. Everyone notices, and you are constantly asked as to whether or not you have been sleeping. You have, though nobody believes you, no matter how vehemently you argue, thus the mirror conversations with your niece and nephew always end early because Stanley needs to force you to go to bed.

You never try to stay awake. Now that you are finally safe from demons and nightmares, you want nothing more than a good night’s sleep. And you do sleep, but your mind remains active, telling half-real stories with echoes of lies.

Stanley is next to you this time, sitting on the vague memory of a swingset. You join him, and the wooden seat feels new; the frayed ropes like soft yarn. He stares out into the ocean, watching Soos try and jump over the waves, and while you can only see one of Stanley’s eyes from this angle, he looks contented enough.

Saltwater sprays into your mouth, so you catch it on your tongue. It tastes of salt. That should not be surprising, but somehow, it is.

The ocean crashes distantly, and you gently sway in rhythm to it. It’s been a while since you’ve been able to simply enjoy the motion like this, you think. You don’t remember much but this beach, and the people laughing distantly, and your brother.

“Did you ever think that we’d be back here again, Six-Fingers?” he asks.

You shrug, your gut feeling hollow and wrong in some way. But you know him, and he knows you, so you should be comfortable, right?

“Oh well!” he laughs, kicking his feet steadily to make the swing go backwards and forwards and up and down, flying to reach the sun, and when you run a hand through your hair a chunk of dried wax comes out, barely there but so meaningful in the soundless thud it makes upon falling to the ground, taking less than a second. It lies there in the sand. It doesn’t do anything. You look back to Stanley.

He crouches on the ground. Slowly, he rises, like a marionette being pulled up by string. His head is lowered, staring at something in his hand.

Stanley holds the hag stone to his eye, closing the other eye and laughing in an awful, vaguely familiar way.

“Hey, Sixer, I can still see you!”

 

-

 

Nights pass, each worse than the last.

You stare at the ocean lapping against the boat as you and Stanley sail further north and consider the past; shivering although you are used to far colder temperatures. Stanley comes on deck a couple of times and offers you hot chocolate. You accept the mug, but when you try and sip it, your hands shake and it spills over your bare fingers like needles on barely-numbed skin.

You tip it into the ocean.

Stanley thinks that you finished every drop.

 

-

 

There’s an eye in the wood of the table.

Not a physical eyeball, though that has been known to happen, but rather, you can vaguely discern the vague outline of a half-formed eye in the woodgrain, like when you used to watch the clouds from the deck of the original Stan O’ War, seeing monsters and dinosaurs and ghosts. Only this one doesn’t drift away and dissipate before your eyes. It stays. It stares. It watches.

It watches you as you eat breakfast, shrinking under your brother’s gaze, and it watches as you wash up the dishes and write your observations on anomalies, and when you turn your back it still looks at you.

That’s ridiculous, of course. The entire notion that your furniture is spying on you is absurd. Then again, anything could be plausible. Like when you could have sworn that Stanley called you _IQ_ , though he vehemently denied saying anything like that.

The wind spits saltwater in your face while your hair keeps on whipping around to strike the corners of your eyes and your mouth, and your hot chocolate is dribbling down your chin to splatter on your clothes and the floor.

Stanley waits inside the cabin. He’s more sensitive to the cold than you. His old body creaks like an unoiled mechanism after all those years in which he neglected to take care of himself. Some part of your mind registers jealousy at something or other about Stan’s lifestyle. It’s probably the ice cream dinners, or the freedom to not have to fight for every breath he takes. It _has_ to be that.

“Stanford, are you feeling okay?” he asks you, possibly gripping your shoulder.

“I’m fine,” you reply. It feels true, you think. Not that you know anything about being honest.

Your brother keeps on trying to engage you in conversation until late into the night, when you’re so tired that your body is ignoring all signs of exhaustion. At some point, he gives up and goes to bed, leaving you alone in the segment of the boat that serves as a living area and kitchen.

You want to sleep. You want uninterrupted, refreshing, real sleep, and you’re not getting it because of your ridiculous dreams that don’t even mean anything past the fact that you’re paranoid and not alone and still aching for the echoes of Bill.

And, well, the liquor cabinet is well-stocked. You didn’t choose anything in there, because you’re technically not supposed to drink anymore, but Stanley never knew about that aspect of your life. He might have suspected it, with all of the bottles you left lying around, but if he’d really known and understood, he wouldn’t have let you within a mile of a single drop of alcohol.

As it is, he doesn’t know, and though he doesn’t have your preferred fruit-filled liqueurs, the many bottles of whiskey and bourbon should sustain a little bit of indulging into your old habit for a while.

You root in the back of the cupboard at first, because that’s the least noticeable place. He won’t notice one bottle. And hay, maybe you’ll just have some from this one, and never again! Maybe you just need a little push to get back to sleeping normally.

You don’t drink straight from the bottle. You have _dignity_ , damn it! When you’re finished, you place the glass that you used in the sink to drain, and you throw the empty bottle into the ocean before you climb unsteadily to your top bunk bed.

 

-

 

And it stops the nightmares, but only on the nights when you drink. When you don’t, you wake up lying in the sand, with Mabel looking down at you while dressed in the ceremonial garb of the R’w’nuil people of Dimension P;Gu. It’s sparkly and soft, so of course she would love it. You’ll have to explain their culture regarding sparkles and stickers at some point, because her hands would flap quickly enough to generate a small gale.

“Grunkle Stan’s waiting for you,” she says, and her voice sounds empty, somehow. You try to reach into your memory and recall what she’s supposed to sound like but your brain comes up with nothing.

You push yourself up from the ground into a sitting position to see Dipper, Wendy, and Soos, all standing in a row and wearing Mister Mystery suits. The sand comes up to their ankles. They do not move or blink.

Grunkle Stan is waiting for you.

His eyes are closed; hands wrapped over his suited chest that remains perfectly still, no matter how closely you look. You feel his throat for a pulse, but nothing moves.

Mabel touches your shoulder and gives you the memory gun. You take a huge swig from the barrel, letting the liquid flow down your throat, before looking back at your brother.

You blink, looking at Stan’s face. A yellow hag stone is placed over his left eye, while the other is covered by his black eyepatch.

He looks at you, a grin spreading across his face.

“Peek-a-boo, Sixer!”

You jolt awake. For a minute, your heart races as you try to even out your breathing. Grey light seeps through a crack in the curtains as you begin to hear Stanley’s heavy, steady snoring from the bottom bunk.

You might need a drink.

 

-

 

You were at a low point before the Oracle found you. Jhselbraum healed your wounds; shielded your mind; watched you through withdrawal. Many of your memories from that point in time are fuzzy and faded, but you distinctly remember looking up to see seven eyes twisted in compassion and her long, slender hands gripping your own.

 

You probably wouldn’t have made it past the next dimension if it wasn’t for her help.

 

When the time came for you to leave, she had taken your old flask and replaced it with a canteen of water. It took you three years to grow uncaring enough to fill it with alcohol instead, when you realised that you were home and that the fight still wasn’t over.

 

-

 

“Heya Sixer!”

You jolt at the sudden familiar voice, stepping back reflexively. The book that you’re standing on gives way and flips over, making you fall backwards into the star-patterned space until you land on another book.

“Woah, don’t snap your spine! Or the book’s for that matter! Here, how’s about you and me have a drink?”

Bill – because that’s what this is; this is your dreamscape and he’s here, he’s back. Did he ever leave? The drink in your hand tastes like rubbing alcohol. You drain the cup. You drain it again. And again.

“Woah, someone’s let himself go a bit! How long’s it been? One month? Two?”

You squirm, trying to shrink away. Shrink away until you’re an atom, then pop out of existence forever and never have to cope anymore again.

“Aw, it’s so nice to know that you’ve missed me!”

You narrow your eyes at Bill then. “I didn’t miss you. I want you gone, and I want you to leave this dimension and my family alone, and I _never_ want to see you _again_!”

Bill snorts. “Oh, you kidder! You’ve been dreaming about me, though, and I’m flattered. I really am! And since I’m your beloved muse-“

“You’re nothing to me!” you shout, tongue loosened and eyes watering a little. “You’re a liar and a cheat, not a muse! Get away from me!”

“Aw, you kidder!”

You swear that if Bill could smirk, he would be doing so at that moment.

“Anyway, you know that I like to do nice things for you sometimes, and give you things that you like. So I thought, why not replace Fordsy’s good-for-nothing brother?”

No. No no no. He cannot be serious. Bill’s dead; you were sure of that. You held the memory gun and you fired it at Stanley-dressed-as-Ford and you were Ford-dressed-as-Stanley and _you pulled the trigger_ and Stanley knelt, accepting and slack-jawed. Was the rubble falling upwards around you as the apocalypse died all fake? What was-

“I already checked to see if you’d notice a difference, and apparently you’re too drunk to realise who’s who half the time!”

“I’m not drunk that often,” you say quietly, and Bill cackles.

“Really, Stanford? You can barely remember what happened yesterday! You’ve been forgetting things, and old Stanley’s noticed! He’s a lot smarter than either of us gave him credit for, you know. I mean, he saw past you hiding something important! Fiddleford barely even realised that you were messing around and making deals with demons! And from what I’ve heard, you alcoholic humans are supposed to be good at hiding your problems!”

“He doesn’t know,” you say.

“Oh, I think he does, and he’s very disappointed in you. It’s a good thing he won’t be around anymore!”

“No, he won’t, he _can’t_ , he’s got to stay with me,” you begin to mutter, swaying this way and that way like the ocean is taking you home. “He can’t _leave_ me. He _won’t_.”

“Oh, poor, delusional Six-Fingers! And I thought you were pathetic thirty years ago! Anyway, I’ve got to go and move into my new lodgings, and you’ve got to _wake up_.”

And then Bill is pulling you up by the back of your turtleneck and your eyes snap open.

“Get away from me,” you growl.

Bill backs away, raising his hands in a mocking attempt to placate you. “Woah, Ford, I was only going to ask if you were okay. I mean, you were drinking quite a lot.”

“I don’t-“ you stutter before growling again, for lack of a better thing to do. “I’m not an alcoholic, so stop, stop _insinuating_ that I am!”

“I-I never said that!” says Bill, still using that tone like you’re a wild animal and not a man trying to defend himself and his family from a demon possessing his brother.

You laugh, looking around for your gun. “You seemed to have a different opinion before you _possessed my brother_ , you _bastard_!”

Bill’s eyes widen, before he approaches you with a soft, apologetic smile that makes your stomach churn. “Sixer, I’m not Bill. He’s gone. We killed him.”

“ _Liar_!”

Your gun is on the kitchen countertop, next to the open liquor cabinet. Fuck, you’ve drunk a lot of it. You stagger towards it, but the ocean’s waves crash against the side of the boat and you lose your balance. Bill grabs your upper arm tightly, but you wrench free before half-falling the final metre to the counter.

“I’ve killed you before,” you pant, fumbling with the gun. Your hands are almost silent under your heavy breathing, and Bill can’t see through your back so your plan is safe. You spin on your heel as the boat rocks again, and you miss Bill by a long shot.

“Stanford, Ford, Sixer, _no_ ,” breathes Bill, but you don’t care. He has to pay. He has to pay for thinking that he could come back and steal Stanley’s body.

“You get out of that body, or I won’t miss next time,” you say.

Bill shakes his head. “No, Sixer, I can’t! This is _my_ body, _please_ , I’m your _brother_!”

You bare your teeth, your arm steadying. “No, you’re not. I’ll kill you.”

“You don’t want to kill your brother,” Bill says in a last-ditch attempt, his voice sounding thicker and deeper than before. “I, I _know_ you, Sixer. Please, just _listen to me_ , and we can s-s-sort this out.”

You grin viciously. “No, I don’t want to kill my brother,” you say. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself afterwards.”

“Um, that’s good?” says Bill, and that note of confusion sounds so much like Stanley that you could give in right then. But you can’t. This is Bill, and he could trick Dipper or Mabel or Soos or Wendy, and then every single member of your family will be dead or something worse, and it would be your fault.

You can’t let that happen.

You lunge at Bill, wrapping one arm around his torso and using your other hand to hold the gun to his head. You press your temple to his own and let you smile widen coldly.

“ _That’s why we’ll go down together_.”

 

One.

 

Bill freezes, and you grin bitterly. At least it’ll make this easier. Your trigger finger is twitching, like- like-

You don’t know. You don’t know. _You don’t know_.

This would all go a lot better if you were drunk. At least you wouldn’t be capable of making rational decisions.

 

Two.

 

The ropes of the swings connect to the wooden frame that holds them both up and it creaks as you push yourself backwards and forwards. It feels like the ocean, when the echoes of it that are contained in a single seashell on your bedroom shelf are returned from where they came; when you sail away with your brother and you never have to be a freak again, and Stanley gets babes and you get mystery and you both get the closest friend that you can have. Stanley and Stanford Pines, Kings of New Jersey, Captains of the Stan O’ War, high sixes all around.

 

Thr-

 

His body starts to shake with laughter. You pull away in disgust, pushing Bill to the floor and wrapping your free hand around his throat. How dare he mock-

 

And then-

 

It’s not Bill.

 

You scramble upright, not taking your eyes off of Stanley as if he might turn into Bill Cipher when the moon is full.

He pushes himself up slowly, and you can see the pain etched onto his face, along with saltwater tracks; tiny rivers from his eyes.

You rush down to kneel next to him, gun forgotten and dropped behind you. If this is all an elaborate trick by Bill, you’re defenceless now.

“Stanley, are you okay?” you ask, propping your brother up into a sitting position.

He’s crying with full-on, wrenching sobs that tear from his chest through his throat and out of his mouth and nose. Snot and drool drenches his cheeks and chin, while his saltwater-ocean tears make his brown eyes red and puffy. His entire face reddens as he stops breathing properly through his screaming, and you wish that you could drop him and drink instead of dealing with a crying brother, but you made him like this, so you have to deal with it. It’s your fault. It’s always your fault.

Eventually, he quietens, and you help him into a chair before the ocean hits you again and you realise that you might still be kind of drunk. Adrenaline is one hell of a drug, you suppose.

You pour another drink out for both you and Stanley from the nearest bottle, then slump in your chair and ignore your glass completely. Stan can have it. You’re having the bottle.

“I thought that… You’ve changed a lot,” he says. “You’ve changed, and I… Holy _fuck_ , Ford, how long has this been going on for?”

You stare straight through him, and hope that Bill was telling the truth. “Two months.”

“Be honest,” sighs Stanley, his throat croaking out words weakly. “When did this start?”

“Weird dreams,” you say. “Couldn’t sleep well, and you told me to sleep, but it never worked.”

“And getting pissed _did_?”

Stanley had probably been trying to attempt an incredulous tone, but his voice cracked like Dipper’s.

You blink at your lap. “It’s worked for the past thirty-five years or so,”

Stanley puts his face in his hands. “ _Fucking hell_. This is… You’re worse than I thought.”

You take a huge sip from the bottle to try and hide your expression, because those words just made your gut feel like it was being torn out through your abdomen.

“I mean, you’re _sick_ ,” says Stan, before groaning. “Fuck, I mean, you’re addicted, aren’t you?”

You don’t trust yourself to answer, so you just sit there, staring at the table. It doesn’t look like an eye anymore. Maybe it’s hiding. Maybe it was never there to begin with.

Stanley takes your silence as some kind of response, because he sighs and stands up before taking your hand and pulling you up. When you stagger, you tell yourself that it’s because of the ocean. You’ve always been good at lying to yourself.

“We both need to go to sleep,” he says, half-carrying you to your shared bedroom, your head propped on his shoulder and the rest of your body against his arms. “We’ll talk about this in the morning, okay?”

You hum and nod, your hair getting caught in Stan’s scruffy beard. When had he started to grow a beard?

Regardless of the status of his facial hair, Stanley helps you up to the top bunk and takes your shoes off.

“Night, Stanley,” you mumble against your pillow.

You don’t know if Stanley replies, but you can hear the wide ocean as the waves crash, and echo, and lull you to sleep.


End file.
